Scandalous in a Kilt (Hot Scots Book 3)

by Anna Durand

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Wicked in a Kilt

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  About the Author

  Other Books by Anna Durand

  Connect with Anna Durand

  Chapter One

  Soft piano music drifted through the room to surround me where I slouched at the bar, my butt parked on a scuffed wooden stool. I took a sip of my drink—a rum-based concoction known as a Hurricane—wriggled on my seat cushion, and clasped both hands around the tall, curvy glass. I twirled the twin straws, watching the ice cubes dance within the red liquid. The drink had been garnished with a lemon slice and a cherry, but both lay on my napkin. All that remained of the cherry was the stem. I took one more sip of my Hurricane, leaning back in my stool to savor the sweet, fruity flavor of the drink, eyes closed. As the cool cocktail slid down my throat, I opened my eyes to survey the room.

  I'd come to the piano bar at Pat O'Brien's, one of the most famous bars in New Orleans, in search of relaxation after a long flight from Colorado Springs. The brick walls and aged-wood ceiling lent the place a historical feel, while the beer mugs hanging on the wall behind the bar made it clear this was a place for imbibing. Giant mirrors hung from the far wall, projecting images of the room. People occupied every one of the thirty or so tables behind me as well as every bar stool, save for the one between me and the wall.

  Past the adjacent, empty stool, I spied the entrance doors and the dim lighting in the alley beyond, where artificial bulbs gave in to the darkness of the night. On the other side of the alley, another doorway led into the main bar of Pat O'Brien's. Groups of people meandered down the stone-paved carriageway in various states of revelry. A few laughed too loud, stumbling on the paving stones, obviously drunk. At ten o'clock? Sheesh, they'd gotten an early start. Everyone seemed to be having more fun than I was, but I'd resigned myself to an evening of one drink and then back to my motel for bed.

  Stifling a yawn, I fought the urge to scratch my scalp. Airline travel always left me feeling grimy and itchy, in desperate need of a shower. I'd opted for alcohol instead of cleanliness, though, and hadn't even bothered to change out of my travel clothes. Everyone ignored a girl in a ComicCon T-shirt and worn blue jeans. Tonight, I preferred solitude. Tomorrow, I planned on a wild night of dancing with strangers and diving into the NOLA night life. The slinky dress I'd bought specially for this trip hung on a hanger hooked onto a post of the bunk bed in my motel room. Yep, I shared a room with three other ladies, the cheapest and friendliest way to stay.

  My dress would come out to play tomorrow. Tonight, I needed to rest up for revelry of my own. If I still had it in me.

  Of course you do. You're Emery Granger, the fun-loving crazy chick who won the award for skimpiest costume at the office Halloween party.

  Yes, I remembered how to cut loose—and I had two more days and another night before I headed home. Ugh. Home to what exactly, I still didn't know. Unemployment sucked, but the nine-to-five grind inside a cubicle in a windowless office had cramped my style big time.

  My phone warbled, indicating a new text message.

  Luke. I knew it was him before I wrestled my phone out of my hip pocket and saw my ex-fiancé's name on the screen. We'd stayed friends, like I had with all my exes—except for one, whose name I refused to even let into my thoughts. Might wreck my weekend vacation. Instead, I focused on the text from Luke.

  How's NOLA?

  With one finger I typed my response. Awesome. The ten feet of it I've seen so far.

  Show me?

  Everybody knew I loved a good selfie. What the heck. I held my phone at arm's length, elevated above my line of sight, and smiled broadly for the camera. I texted the image to Luke with a caption: Emery rocks the Big Easy, geek style.

  Luke's reply came seconds later. Cool! Love the shirt.

  He included two emojis—a winking smiley face alongside a cocktail glass. We exchanged a few more texts, then said goodbye. I promised to send more pictures once my New Orleans adventure really got going tomorrow, then I stuffed my phone in my back pocket, wriggling to get in a position where it wouldn't dig into my tailbone. The rectangular shape of my driver's license in my front pocket pinched me a little, and the movement caused the bills stuffed into my bra to shift. Heedless of the crowd around me, I shoved my hand inside my shirt to reposition the twenty-dollar bills I'd stashed in the safest place available to me.

  With my loot secure, I grabbed my drink and ignored the straws this time, swigging a big mouthful. Sighing, I closed my eyes again. The fruitiness of my drink lingered on my tongue as the warmth of the alcohol suffused my body. I'd never sampled a Hurricane before tonight. Mm, yummy.

  "May I take this seat?"

  The rumbliness of the deep voice posing the question made my eyelids flutter open.

  I sprang upright, feeling a sudden urge to fluff my hair and check my makeup. My pulse beat faster as blood raced down my veins to enliven my skin.

  A man stood a couple feet away behind the adjacent stool. Not a mere man, oh no. His head nearly bumped the wooden ceiling above the bar, and even through his dark-green dress shirt I glimpsed enormous muscles. My gaze traveled downward as I admired his muscular calves and honey-brown leather boots. A kilt concealed his thighs.

  My attention stalled there. I stared at the plaid garment draped around his hips. I'd seen a lot of strange clothing choices tonight, but no one else had worn a freaking kilt.

  "How old are you?" he asked.

  I tore my gaze away from his kilt. "You must not get lucky very often if you ask women that question."

  He tilted his head left, then right, studying me. "You look young, but your manner is mature."

  "Oh, I get it. You're worried I'm jail bait. Relax, I'm thirty-four." People often thought I was younger, so I'd gotten used to this treatment from guys. I lifted my glass. "Ask the bartender. He carded me."

  "I'll take your word for it." The stranger eased between my stool and the vacant one. "Well, would you mind having me?"

  I latched onto the sight of lightly tanned skin, exposed by the undone top two buttons of his well-tailored shirt. The scent of his cologne, woodsy and spicy, enveloped me and warmth rushed through my body again, though not from booze this time.

  "Have you?" I mumbled, distracted by his flexing muscles as he rotated the stool toward me. I'd love to have him—pressed against me, lying o
n top of me, any way he wanted.

  "As a neighbor," he said, his lips curving into a sexy smile. He patted the empty stool. "May I?"

  "This is a free country. Be my guest."

  My new friend perched his taut ass on the stool, sliding in until his body bumped the back of the stool. He laid an arm atop the copper bar and aimed his brandy-colored eyes at me. "Being the guest of a bonnie lass appeals to me."

  Bonnie? I blinked rapidly, struggling in vain to clear the haze from my brain. His voice…He spoke with an accent.

  "Are you Scottish?" I asked.

  Those rich, amber irises glowed in the subdued lighting. His smile turned teasing. "What gave me away?"

  "Can't fool a college graduate." I leaned forward to wrap my hands around the glass of my Hurricane, needing the cool-down. Not that it helped. The iced drink chilled my hands but left the rest of me flushed with a tempting warmth. "You have a kilt and an accent. Even if I were stoned, I could've figured that one out."

  He slanted forward a touch, and the light gleamed on his short, light brown hair, setting off golden highlights. "College graduate, eh? I found an intellectual woman to bide my time with. What was your field of study?"

  Ech. This was where I lost a lot of guys. Supposed I could've lied, but I preferred to tell the truth, even to a gorgeous stranger from another country. Besides, I wasn't embarrassed. I didn't want to scare off a hot prospect, though.

  I sat up straight, hands on my thighs. "Computer programming."

  "Ah," he said, drawing out the single syllable as if he relished the taste of it. "You expect me to be less than impressed."

  "My occupation isn't the stuff of men's wet dreams, now is it?"

  His throaty chuckle shivered along my skin like a physical touch. "I prefer professional women. And anyway—" He bent toward me, so close his breaths whispered over my lips. "You'll be featured in all my dreams tonight."

  My throat went thick, my skin tightened. I'd come to New Orleans for excitement and adventure, an escape from my boring life, to shed my corporate skin and let my wild side out to play. Why not flirt with a stranger? Naughty flirting, no less.

  Excitement zinged through me, an electric current like nothing I'd experienced in a long, long time. You're overdue, girl, go for it.

  "Tell me," he said, "what is a beautiful, intelligent woman doing all alone in a bar? You should have a horde of men slavering to do your bidding."

  "I got into town this evening. Haven't had a chance to drum up a horde." I wiggled on my seat to angle toward him. Our faces hovered deliciously close, and I pulled in a deep draft of Scot-scented air. Crossing my legs, I lay an arm on the bar while my other hand rested on my thigh. "Would you do my bidding?"

  The part of me that conformed to expected behavior winced. The other part of me, the one I kept quiet most of the time out of necessity, thrilled at the prospect of…whatever I was doing with this man.

  "Ah, lass," he purred, fingering a lock of my pale, ash-blonde hair. The lighting had imbued it with an almost ethereal glow. "For you, I'd go down on my knees and do whatever is necessary to make certain you feel nothing but satisfaction."

  Holy shit. This guy was a master of dirty flirting.

  With a soft groan, he shifted his mouth to my ear. "I love your eyes. They sparkle like topaz dusted with emerald flecks. A man could drown in those eyes of yours, and he'd never want to come up for air."

  Couldn't speak. Couldn't catch my breath. My fingers crooked into my thigh, and my mouth went dry. When he moved one hand onto the back of my stool, I stopped breathing altogether.

  His voice rumbled in my ear. "Let's go somewhere more…intimate."

  "I'm not that easy."

  A chuckle resonated in his chest. "I am."

  "Telling me you're a man-whore is supposed to turn me on?" Damn if it hadn't, but really, I had never gone off with a stranger. I shouldn't do it.

  I burned to do it.

  "You are aroused," he said, his voice husky, "I can see it. We're adults, and I willnae do anything without your consent."

  "Damn straight you won't." My breathless tone sapped most of the oomph out of that statement, and my traitorous body melted from the inside out at the thought of what he might do to me. Excitement? Oh yeah, I'd found it all right.

  The stranger nuzzled my throat, just below my ear. "I want to kiss you."

  His statement, spoken in that sultry voice, triggered a deep, wet throbbing between my thighs. Somehow, I mustered the breath to reply. "I'd like that."

  "Good." He skimmed his lips along my jawline, then dragged them across my cheek to the corner of my mouth. His tongue flicked out to taste my skin.

  I sucked in a sharp breath.

  His tongue explored the seam of my lips as he repositioned his mouth over mine, not quite touching me. My lips parted of their own accord, my body acting without my conscious thought. Screw thinking. I'd done enough of that at work, slaving over line after dreary line of code. I let my body sag toward him and floated my palms up to his broad, firm chest. The silky texture of his shirt—was it actual silk?—teased my sensitized skin.

  When he brushed his lips over mine, I let out a breathless little moan.

  He pressed his mouth to mine, his lips warm and soft and oh-so-inviting.

  I clenched his shirt in my fingers, my heart pounding at the expectation of what was to come, my mouth opening more for him.

  The Scot licked at my tongue. Delicate, teasing laps that had me dissolving into his hard body, stretched across the distance between our stools, our knees grazing each other. His free hand found my back and glided upward until his big palm landed on my nape, rippling a shudder of need through my entire body. His fingers slid into my hair to cradle my head.

  Wildfire. Consuming my skin. Scorching through my sex.

  His tongue plunged inside my mouth. I met his velvety thrusts with my own, our tongues locked in an erotic dance, the flavor of him infusing my mouth as I moaned into his. My nipples shot hard, and my body ached in ways I'd only dreamed of before tonight, before this moment with this man.

  The Scot severed our kiss, staring at me with glossy eyes, his chest heaving. "How much have ye had to drink?"

  "What? Two sips and one gulp of this one drink. Why?"

  "Yer still thinking clearly, then." He ghosted the backs of his fingers over my cheek. "Come with me to my hotel. Stay the night."

  Every good-girl alarm in my brain clanged at the suggestion, but I was so fucking sick of playing by the rules. This man ignited my desires like no one else.

  Adventure. Excitement. Embodied in a stranger.

  Gazing into those brandy eyes, I spoke a single word that rushed out on a sigh. "Yes."

  Chapter Two

  The door to the room clicked shut behind us. The word "room" seemed inadequate to describe this huge suite in the Ritz-Carlton. I had set foot in a luxury hotel for the first time ever. Though we stood in a short hallway, beyond it I glimpsed a spacious and luxurious living room. Other doorways opened off the hall, leading into rooms I couldn't quite see. My hot Scot had brought me to a suite that would've dwarfed my apartment back home.

  He settled his hands on my hips and backed me into the wall, his hooded gaze riveted to mine, hunger sizzling in his expression and tautening his muscles. His eyes shimmered a luscious, golden amber reminiscent of brandy or whiskey, and I spiraled down into their intoxicating depths.

  I would've melted then and there, if my insides hadn't already liquefied. He'd made certain of that during our cab ride from the bar to the hotel, with his tantalizing kisses and talented hands.

  Those hands, the ones that had just eased me up against the wall, roamed down to my buttocks to splay over my flesh in a possessive gesture. He molded his body to mine, his solid muscles flexing against my soft body, his hard-on a rigid line against my belly.

  Head spinning, heart pounding, I craned my neck to behold his face. His eyes searched my face as if seeking an answer to a question he hadn't asked
yet, even as his hands massaged my behind and he ground his hips into me. I rocked mine forward, seeking the contact. He drew my earlobe into his mouth to suckle and nip at the tender skin, then laved a path down my throat with his lips and tongue.

  I floated on a cloud of anticipation and disbelief, my scalp tingling and my body crackling with fervent energy. A one-night stand? Never in my life had I done anything like this. I'd always been a free spirit, but this was beyond crazy, even for me. After years of living as an office drone, I needed to break out.

  This would be a huge adventure. A huge risk.

  Maybe I should've been disturbed by how fast I'd agreed to go with a stranger to his hotel room for a one-nighter. Maybe I should've backed out.

  Not this time.

  "I haven't changed my mind," I said. "In case you were wondering."

  "Mmmm," he murmured against my skin. "Ahmno doubting ye want me."

  "Who are you?"

  "Does it matter who I am?" He feathered his lips over mine. "We'll have one night and only one night."

  One night only. An electric tingle chased through my body. One scandalous night with a stranger. No names, no strings, nothing but one smoking-hot man and the pleasure we might give each other.

  His hand dived under my T-shirt and swept up to close over my breast. When he thumbed my nipple, my neck arched. God, I wanted our clothes off. Now. The torture of his flesh separated from mine by a thin layer of cotton drove me mad. My skin had become hypersensitive to the whisking of fabric and the deliberate flicking of his thumb. He grasped my ass in both hands again as his mouth sealed over mine and his tongue plowed deep inside, his invasion fierce and voracious and irresistible. I moaned into his mouth and flung my arms up to encompass his neck, my fingers tunneling into his short, silky hair.

  He lifted me onto my toes, bringing our faces closer, and tore his mouth from mine. A ruddy pinkness tinged his cheeks. "For you, ahmno rushing. Plan on savoring every moment with ye, my wicked little angel."

  Surrounded by him, I felt small, my five-feet-six tiny compared to his massive body. He made me feel naughty and ravenous, but somehow safe. Insane, my rational brain warned. I no longer gave a damn about being rational.